


Foiled Again

by hgdoghouse



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Fencing, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgdoghouse/pseuds/hgdoghouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie and Doyle learn to fence</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foiled Again

His lunge controlled, Doyle touched Bodie's shoulder with the capped tip of his foil. "Wanna play?"

Skin slightly flushed from exertion, his mouth just parted, Doyle was exuding a heady _joie de vivre_. Meeting those wide, unguarded eyes, Bodie was tempted to tell him the truth, while knowing he never could. There were easier ways to commit suicide than playing kebab to Doyle's skewer. Sex again, he recognised, as his body gave an inopportune, hopeful twitch. Sex and Doyle seemed to go hand in hand and both had been, taking up far too much of his attention over recent weeks.

"Not right now." Sounding bored, Bodie brushed the foil aside with the flat of his hand. His feet crossed at the ankles, he folded his arms across his chest.

"Spoilsport." Setting his foil on the table next to Bodie's, Doyle stripped off his gauntlets and tossed them beside to his face guard. Spotting the jug of orange juice, he drank from it, ignoring the glasses set out for their use.

Bodie gave a long-suffering sigh. "Can't take you anywhere, can I."

"Must be why you don't bother," retorted Doyle. His gaze remaining on his partner he took a more leisurely sip, his little finger genteelly crooked.

"That's one reason," Bodie agreed, relieving Doyle of the jug and drinking from it himself. The juice was freshly squeezed and tartly refreshing. "This is good."

"For the fees this place charges, it should be. Cowley's late this morning."

"No, we're early thanks to you booking us in for a six o'clock session. I owe you for that," Bodie added grimly.

"Have it on me," said Doyle sunnily, choosing to misunderstand his partner.

"Do you know how much sleep I had last night?"

"Teach you to exhaust yourself with the luscious Deborah," said Doyle, his tone flattening.

"I wasn't," said Bodie indignantly.

"Dumped you, did she?"

"Are you surprised, after your conversation with her?" asked Bodie, no more than resigned.

"How was I to know you'd changed birds?" said Doyle, all large-eyed innocence.

"Don't push it," Bodie advised him. "You'll get yours, don't you worry."

"Who's worried," dismissed Doyle, fidgeting with his gauntlets. Pulling them on, he picked up his foil again. "Anyway, you enjoyed this morning's session, didn't you."

"It had it's moments," Bodie allowed, as Doyle began to practice his footwork.

The bare floorboards creaked as Doyle danced across them, motes of dust rising to float in the sunlight streaming in to the long, dark-panelled room. Propped against the sturdy oak table, Bodie unashamedly indulged in some Doyle-watching because he knew he was safe while this period of concentration lasted.

How long Doyle's enthusiasm for fencing would last was another matter; his enthusiasms, while sincere and whole-hearted at the time, rarely lasted long. The austerity of the white practice suit made an interesting contrast to the undisciplined hair and sensuality of Doyle's unshaved face. The only problem with the outfit, despite its close fit, was that the padding over vital areas hid the play of muscle. Mentally relieving Doyle of his clothing, a piece at a time, Bodie's lusty musings changed to affectionate amusement when he realised Doyle had obviously forgotten he was not alone. His movements had taken on a decidedly theatrical flavour as he engaged his invisible assailant.

"Errol Flynn lives!" called Bodie, applauding when Doyle finally came to a standstill, breathing hard. His flamboyant flourish at the end had left the victor of the hard-fought battle in no doubt.

The real world thrown back into focus, Doyle spun round, looking self-conscious when he realised he had betrayed his rich fantasy life. His nose wrinkled in engaging self-mockery before he shrugged and strolled back to where Bodie sat. Knee bending, the line of arm and shoulder straight, Doyle lunged smoothly until the tipped point of his foil rested unwaveringly over his partner's heart.

"Basil Rathbone," Doyle insisted.

"He always lost, didn't he?"

"Not in my version, he didn't." Disengaging, Doyle briefly saluted him before setting his foil on the scarred table top and dragging off his gauntlets again. "I hate wearing these," he complained, unfastening the neck of his tunic. Snapping his fingers, he leant forward to relieve Bodie of the jug, keeping one hand on his shoulder as he drank deeply.

Conscious of rippling throat muscles and the heady scent of a warm Ray Doyle, Bodie watched as a pink tongue tip flicked out to lick away the narrow moustache of orange Doyle had acquired.

"Enjoy that, did you?" Bodie inquired, when he trusted his voice.

"Yeah. It's fun, this. It never occurred to me that people still played with swords."

"I shouldn't let Steve hear you say that. Not with his Bronze in the Olympics. He takes it all very seriously."

"I don't know how anyone can take anything seriously while they're wearing this get-up. Though there is something - I dunno." Doyle gestured vaguely, pushing a hand back through his heavy curls, before returning it to Bodie's shoulder.

. "Dashing? Heroic? A reminder of the days when men were men and birds didn't wear knickers?" suggested Bodie, just before the dust made him sneeze. He took the handkerchief Doyle handed him without thought, sneezing twice more before blowing his nose.

"Didn't they?" Doyle's head turned. He was so close that Bodie could see the dampness at temple and upper lip, captivated by the precise outline of the pursed mouth, delineated as it was by a faint orange outline.

"Didn't who what?" asked Bodie vaguely, returning the soggy handkerchief to Doyle, who received it without comment.

"The birds wear knickers," Doyle said patiently.

"How should I know?" snapped Bodie, pierced by the hopelessness of his longing. This casual intimacy they shared was no more than a snare and a delusion. Equally, it was stupid to blame Ray for being himself; none of this was his fault. If it was anyone's, it was Cowley for making them play with something as phallic as a foil. "I don't suppose so," he continued in more of his usual tone. "Knickers were a late invention."

"I bet it was the Victorians who came up with them. They were great ones for covering things up. Remember piano legs?" Receiving a blank look, Doyle tried to pretend he hadn't noticed anything unusual about the last few minutes. "This fencing lark was a good idea of the Old Man's."

"As I remember it, it was less of a suggestion than an order. You'd think that leg of his would slow him down," added Bodie.

"It probably does. We're just not good enough yet to capitalise on the fact." Doyle's tone was confident.

Bodie gave a knowing grin. "Want him at your mercy, do you?"

"You mean you don't?"

"It would be a novelty."

Doyle toyed with the handle of his foil. "I wonder how good Rathbone really was."

"Better than us, that's for sure," said Bodie realistically.

Doyle grinned. "Judging by the insults Cowley and Steve both throw at us, that wouldn't be difficult. I'm thinking about booking a few more sessions with Steve while work's still quiet. It's all very well practising with you, but as you're even worse than me I can't say I'm learning much."

"Who beat whom yesterday?" inquired Bodie in lofty tones.

"So you claim. As I haven't got the hang of the scoring, I can't argue the odds. Yet," warned Doyle darkly.

Bodie gave him a one-armed hug of consolation. "I wouldn't cheat - or not much." Distracted by the heady sense of warm Doyle unexpectedly pliant against him, Bodie's grin faded. There was still a faint trace of orange visible above Doyle's upper lip. Without conscious thought Bodie delicately licked the spot clean.

Large-eyed, Doyle stared at him. "You licked me," he said blankly, his voice only just avoiding an embarrassing squeak.

"Yes. It's all right," said Bodie in brisk reassurance, trying to draw away. "I won't do it again."

His expression changing, Doyle shook his head, visibly despairing of him. "Don't stop on my account. You silly sod. Why didn't you say? I thought it was just me." Without waiting for a reply, he hooked Bodie closer. "We won't count that one," he continued, making Bodie jump when one hand settled over the centre of his rump.

"Why not?"

"First kisses are supposed to be special, aren't they. Though we can always lie when we're reminiscing."

His hands splayed, one over Doyle's shoulder blades, the other in the small of his back, Bodie was careful, as if holding something infinitely precious. "Never took you for the reminiscing kind."

"Me neither. Just goes to show," said Doyle cryptically, before he found Bodie's mouth with his own, hesitant at first.

Their first kiss was tentative and oddly clumsy given their joint expertise.

They did better the second time.

The sound of uneven footsteps approaching down the hall shot them apart so fast that Doyle's elbow caught the jug of orange juice, knocking it to the floor. By the time Cowley entered the practice room, they were both on their knees collecting up the broken glass, studiously avoiding any hint of eye or body contact. Both were also liberally splashed with juice.

"I'm sorry I'm late. It's about time the pair of you stopped fooling around," Cowley added in a different tone, his displeasure all too evident.

"I wasn't fooling, sir." His message for Doyle, Bodie received Cowley's ensuing lecture with equanimity while Doyle finished collecting up the broken glass, brushing the floor with his hand to check for splinters.

"I hope you haven't cut yourself," Cowley snapped.

Reduced to the level of a small boy, Doyle extended his filthy hands. "No, but we're a bit of a mess."

"That's no novelty," Cowley assured him. "Get yourselves cleaned up and be quick about it!"

"Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning," murmured Bodie, at Doyle's shoulder as they jogged down the hall.

"Probably too much solitary vice," said Doyle, as they went into the nearest cloakroom. Their shoulders brushed as they stood at adjoining sinks. "I've been resorting to a lot of that myself recently."

"Yeah? Me, too," Bodie conceded. "You did me a favour with Deborah. I'd got tired of second best. I wasn't doing her any favours either."

"That's very altruistic of you."

"Oh, I'm feeling very altruistic right now," Bodie assured him.

Their gazes met and held in the water-splashed mirror.

"Let's hope I can keep you feeling that way," said Doyle, returning his attention to washing already clean hands.

"Doesn't this bother you - us, I mean?" Bodie asked abruptly, pushing a bundle of paper towels at Doyle.

"No," he said simply, before he grinned. "It's a relief to know what's been wrong between us these last few weeks if you must know. I'd wondered, of course. Have you got a problem?" he asked warily.

"I'm not the worrier of this team," Bodie reminded him, dodging the wad of damp paper tossed at him.

"Nor am I about this. Though it's not in character, I know."

"Cheer up. You'll find something to worry about," Bodie consoled, holding the door open for him with exaggerated courtesy.

. "Cowley, if his mood doesn't lighten up," said Doyle, nodding to one of the instructors as they strolled down the hall, in no hurry to lose their minimal privacy. "We can kiss our day off goodbye."

"Sod's law," said Bodie philosophically.

"Cowley's, you mean."

"Same thing. Will this," Bodie gestured vaguely between them, "make a difference?"

Doyle killed his ribald reply to answer the question in Bodie's eyes instead of his ineptly-words. "Bound to. But not in the way you're thinking. In case I hadn't made myself clear, you're hardly a flash-in-the-pan fling."

That familiar asperity providing its own reassurance, Bodie relaxed. "You make me sound like a toilet," he complained happily.

"That why you're flushed with happiness?" inquired Doyle.

"Oh god," groaned Bodie. "And save any other little puns which occur to you. God, look at the state of us."

Doyle obliged, his expression pensive when he took in the extent of the damage. Their once white trousers had acquired some dubious-looking stains around the groin, dust adhering to knees and calves.

"Funny where most of the stains have congregated, isn't it," he remarked. "Could hide a multitude of sins behind these." He gave Bodie a wicked look of invitation just before he pushed him into the practice room.

Cowley was not amused, his mood worsening with his growing conviction that neither man was concentrating on his sword play.

"Are you listening to me?" he demanded, giving Doyle an exasperated poke.

Yet to get over the sight of Bodie dressed in tight-fitting virginal white, Doyle gave him a vacant look. "Not really. Sorry. Was it important?"

Bodie closed his eyes, which did nothing to endear him to the irate Scotsman busy cancelling their leave and sending them on a refresher course with Macklin and the latest batch of recruits.

 

In the rush to change, pack and get to headquarters in time to join Macklin in the helicopter, there was no time for private conversation, although their gloom deepened when they met the recruits.

"I've never seen so much bright-eyed anticipation," complained Doyle as he and Bodie took the cots furthest from the door. Experience had taught them that British summertime couldn't be relied upon in the wilds of Wales. "Three fucking days," he moaned, his glare deterring a keen youngster who had been about to approach them.

"And whose fault is that?" Bodie reminded him as he knotted the laces of his second climbing boot.

"Yours for wearing white," Doyle muttered, before he sighed. "It was mine, I know. Sorry." He received a fleeting pat of forgiveness. "What are we going to do?"

"We could always murder Macklin and make a run for it."

"That gets my vote."

"I thought it might. Not very realistic though."

"Realistic, then - if we must."

"Live with aching balls for another three days."

"Sod realism," said Doyle, sinking onto the edge of the cot. "Christ, I hate these bloody orienteering courses. It always rains."

"Look on the bright side, we might be able to find some nice thick undergrowth in a very private spot," said Bodie.

Doyle looked at him. "There are times when your optimism can be quite welcome. This isn't one of them."

"There's bound to be undergrowth. And you've never been known for your orienteering skills when there aren't any buildings around. Only natural I'd have to help you out. We'll manage something," said Bodie confidently.

 

Shivering in the wind, Doyle stared around the barren landscape, then at Bodie. "You see any vegetation above ankle height?"

"No."

"Me neither. Serves me right for believing you," Doyle added, taking comfort from the frustration he saw on his partner's face. "I suppose we should get this over with. The others left twenty minutes ago."

Bodie put a restraining hand on Doyle's arm, although he could feel nothing through the survival gear they were wearing. "Faster we get there, the faster Brian will find something else for us to do. It never pays to excel," he reminded his partner, having made that mistake during his first refresher course.

"Boringly average, then," said Doyle, watching the last distant figure trot out of view.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," murmured Bodie, pulling him close.

While it began to pour with rain, it was a good thirty seconds before either man noticed.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Written 6th April 1993
> 
>  
> 
> Published in the letterzine _The Short Circuit_


End file.
